


Reflections and Distractions

by GreyFalcon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyFalcon/pseuds/GreyFalcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Citizen Fang. Sam and Dean are hunting a rougarou in Chattanooga. But Martin's death at Bennie's hands is still causing friction--enough to distract them from the hunters after Sam.<br/>Supernatural and its characters are owned by Eric Kripke.  This fic is not meant for any profit (except emotional).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections and Distractions

The newspapers listed several ugly deaths in Chatanooga. Reading the facts as presented by the articles, Sam concluded a rougarou must have settled down in the area. Dean pulled the Impala into the gravel parking lot of the Five Oaks Inn late in the afternoon three tense days later. Age weighed heavily on the old building, bowing the roof and peeling the white paint from the walls.

The rooms turned out to be little better. Sam could see through parts of the carpet to the concrete floor. The ceiling resembled the concrete sidewalk outside more than an actual ceiling.

Sam sighed and dropped his duffel by the nightstand next to his bed. 'I’m keeping my clothes in the duffel for this place, the walls look the same color as the parking lot! I’ll research it later, after I get the lay of the land.'

Sam pulled his coat on and turned to the door.

“Where’re you goin’?” Dean demanded from where his spot on the couch, eyes narrowed.

Sam eyed his brother dubiously. “Out for a walk.”

“You going to call another hunter? Martin’s death wasn’t enough?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened as anger corded his muscles taut. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his cell phone and threw it hard at Dean. “Just a walk,” he hissed.

He stormed out the door, slamming it shut. 'Stupid—flaming stupid--! Martin didn’t listen, and now he’s dead! And somehow that’s all my fault! I told Martin to back off! Tracking only! I told him Benny was too much for him to handle! But he didn’t listen—and that’s my fault somehow! He threatened a civilian—and that’s my fault somehow! Martin is dead, and somehow it’s ALL MY FAULT!!'

“I’m not responsible for every stupid thing someone does when I’m not around!” Sam shouted back at the motel. “I warned him! I warned him over and over! He chose to go after Benny himself! He ignored what I said, and went after Benny! I didn’t kill him—he did that all by his stupid self!”

Then Sam turned away from the motel, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and took off down the street, his long legs churning away the miles. He stalked through the downtown, ignoring the garish red lights above the multiple bars to lure people in like so many flies. He passed the business section, with black storefront windows and dark alleys. The gritty dust on the sidewalk, the grime rubbed into the building sides reminded him of the many dead buildings they’d broken into through the years. He strode past the apartments complexes and condos, the entryways sealed up tight, only faint sounds of life making it out to street level.

'I’ll take the blame for what I do when I fuck up. That’s never been a problem. I see that I screwed up and yeah, I accept the responsibility. I won’t deny it, and I won’t back down from making it right. But that’s not enough for Dean. I can’t ever do enough to wipe the slate clean of a single thing. No, he’s got to rub my face in my mistakes at every opportunity! No matter how much I try to make it right, it’s never enough for him! Why does Dean have to keep harping on my failures? Does he think I don’t know about them, that I don’t review them every single night?'

Sam’s brisk pace carried him to the outskirts of town, and into the suburbs. Fewer streetlights dropped their light on the road, leaving black gaps between.

'Dean carries grudges. I’ve known that for years. Anger he lets out with his fists—especially when he doesn’t like what I’m saying. He hasn’t done that recently—at least, not yet. It’ll happen, though. Dean thinks more with his fists than with his brain.'

The sound of a car slowing caught his attention as he walked over a culvert. The vehicle stayed behind him. Sam suddenly felt exposed; his instincts screamed warning. He vaulted over the guardrail and dropped down into the shadowed gully, hearing the echo of gunshots above. He rolled down the side of the gully much like a ball—an uncontrolled plunge into the darkness. Honeysuckle vines and privet bushes wrapped around his torso, breaking beneath his weight. Dead leaves and rotted sticks coated his jacket, his jeans. Rocks and stiff branches jammed into his chest and arms.

The steep gully thwarted Sam’s attempts to stop. He shot off the stream bank and hit the shallow water. There he staggered to his feet and lurched to the near side of the stream. He pulled his gun out of his waistband, breathing a quick thanks to God it hadn’t been dislodged by the fall. He flattened out against the side of the gully, the mud and leaves and sticks remaining on his coat providing camouflage. He held the arm with the gun straight out in front of him, aiming at the guardrail.

'My gun’s wet but not dirty. Nothing should have gotten in the barrel. Please work like you’re supposed to …'

A man climbed carefully over the rail. Sam could see the pistol the other held, as well as the flashlight. He held perfectly still, waiting. When the light drew near Sam took a deep breath through his nose and held it, narrowing his eyes down to mere slits.

It didn’t help; the light stuck to Sam’s face. He rolled to the side, hearing another gunshot. Sam aimed at the light and returned fire. Then he rolled back the other way, out of the light, and shot again. The light fell to the ground, began rolling down the side of the gully.

“He just shot Tom, Archie! Watch out!”

Sam jumped to his feet and took off up the stream bed. His splashing passage covered any sounds of pursuit, so he left the water after the first bend. He scrambled up the side, kicking dirt and leaves and twigs loose in his haste. When he felt he had enough distance from the stream he stopped, then began edging silently and carefully in a parallel track to the stream, using bushes and small logs to hide his prints.

He found a rock half-buried in the dirt, slightly larger than his hand. He pried it loose and covered its resting place with more loose dirt.

'A non-fatal projectile. Perfect.'

Sam finally hunched down behind a clump of privet. Dried leaves still held to the bush branches, providing exceptional camouflage.

After a moment the beam from a second hunter’s flashlight wove around his hiding place, then moved past. Sam stood in the darkness slowly and carefully. He saw the second hunter, still in the stream, searching for him. Sam lifted his rock, got it balanced in his hand, and threw it hard.

He hit the hunter in the head. The man went down bonelessly, face-first in the stream.

Sam scrambled down the side of the gully and staggered over to the hunter. He pulled the man out of the water by his collar and leaned him against the stream bank. The hunter started coughing up water. A quick check showed the lump growing on the side of his head.

“Serves you right,” Sam softly growled as he removed the weapons from his would-be assailant. He took the man’s phone and cracked it in half, dropping the pieces into the stream.

Sam paused for a second before heading downstream. 'This bozo came from this direction, and he still has a friend. They’re probably trying to flush me out of this place upstream—or pin me between the two. I haven’t heard the third hunter, haven’t seen his flashlight—so chances are good he is still upstream. My best shot to leave this gully is downstream.'

He paused below the culvert, hearing the auto still idling. The first man he’d shot lay halfway down the bank, clearly dead. Sam hurried through the culvert and made his way up the bank on the far side, peering over the sidewalk to see who or what stood above him. He saw the car, idling in the middle of the street. But no hunter sat or stood within his line of sight.

Sam quietly lifted himself onto the concrete and scooted over to the car. He cautiously checked out the back seat as well as the floorboards. Finding no one hiding there, he commandeered the vehicle and floored the accelerator, driving it away into the darkness.

Miles down the road, a small dirt track provided the cover Sam sought. He pulled the car almost a mile in before he stopped. Checking out the trunk, he found their arsenal—including a spare can of gas. He used this to generously soak the trunk and the interior of the car. A refill from the fuel tank gave him more to pour on the engine.

He started the engine, and then ran. The flames lit up the skies behind him and the explosion shook the air. He kept running, letting the vehicle burn.

Back on the main highway he pulled up his still-dripping hoodie and reached down for his phone. 'Best to let Dean know we’re not welcome in this town anymore—wait, where’s my phone?'

“Aahh—dammit!” He clearly remembered throwing the phone at Dean earlier this evening. He sighed and shoved his hands back into his pockets.

"This just sucks."

***

Shortly before dawn, Sam arrived at the back of Five Oaks Inn. Most of Sam’s night got used by the long slow crawl back, hours of maneuvering through alleyways, backyards, and along a stretch of railroad tracks.

Fatigue chewed earnestly at his legs, so Sam sat down next to a large trash bin and scooted back until he felt the brick building against his broad shoulders.

'I need to rest, I need to eat. I need to get Dean out of this town. But before I can do any of that, I need to make sure we can leave the hotel room without being killed by a sniper.'

Dawn arrived and passed before Sam began to examine the lay of the land, mentally tagging spots where a sniper would most likely set up shop. Once he knew where to check, he backed out of the alley and began closing in on those sites.

He found the hunter in the second location, crouched behind a trashcan in the alley that spilled out into the parking lot. There was no easy way to get to him … then Sam spotted the fire escape on the other side of the building. He searched around and picked up another good-sized rock, jiggling it a bit to determine its balance.

'Heavy to throw, and awkward. The roof is up on the third floor. If I drop it on his head or his spine, he’s dead. If I hit his shoulders, his back, or his hip—he’s down for a long, long time. Either way, he’s no longer a concern. I don’t want to kill him, but I will get him out of the way.'

Sam retreated from his observation point and headed to the front door of the building—a small store specializing in ink cartridges. He raised his hood, then picked the lock and eased into the building. Moving quickly through the store and into the back, he found the stairway up to the second floor.

In seconds he stood on the roof. Sam crouched down, keeping his shadow from showing before he peered over the lip of the building. The sniper hid behind the trash can right below him.

'Shoulder it is.'

The rock dropped; Sam scooted back from the edge, then stood up and took the fire escape down to the ground. He hurried over to the sniper, splayed out on the ground, his shoulder seeming half buried into his chest. 

Sam scooped up the gun. “Come after me again, and I’ll do worse,” he growled.

***

Finally, Sam got to use his key and get in the hotel room. He staggered over to his bed and sat down wearily. 'Just for a minute …'

Dean jerked up from where he lay and dropped the gun he kept beneath his pillow. “Where the hell have you been?” he asked. “You’ve been gone all night! Why the hell didn’t you call!” Dean tried to get a look at the alarm clock. “What time is it?”

“Seven.” Sam turned to look at the clock. “Seven-thirty,” he corrected himself. “We gotta leave.” He stood up with a groan and started packing his duffle.

“Wait a minute. You mean leave—as in ‘leave the motel’ type leave?”

“More as in ‘leave the town’, dude.” Sam zipped his duffle shut.

“What? No. No, we just got here.”

“And so did a bunch of other hunters.”

“So what? It’s our hunt.”

Sam’s lips thinned in exasperation. “No, Dean, that’s not it.” He reached down beside his bed, picked up the rifle, and tossed it at his brother. “THIS was waiting just outside the door for us. Whichever one of us first stepped out had a bullet waiting for them. Though it might be that you’re not on their hit list.”

Dean inspected the weapon. “Nice one. Something a sniper would love to own.” He smirked. “Guess your buddies are pissed about Martin, eh?”

Sam stepped over to Dean, picking the smaller man up and slamming him into the wall. He put his face next to his brother’s. “No, Dean, I don't HAVE any hunter friends. This group is pissed because I’m the abomination that started the Apocalypse. Forget that I stopped the Apocalypse, they’re after my head any way they can get it.

“They MIGHT NOT want yours as well. I wouldn’t count on it though, that sniper outside our door says different.”

Sam dropped his brother, turned away and went into the bathroom to pack his toiletries. When he came out, Dean sat on his bed waiting for him.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean announced.

Sam dropped his smaller bag on the bed next to his larger one and turned to Dean, stunned. “For the love of--why not?”

“We still have a hunt to finish. We have lives to save.”

“How about our own for once?”

“Dammit, Sam, we hunt to save people!” Dean stood up, his fists clenched, clearly angry.

“Not at the cost of our own!” Sam objected.

“Yes, Sam, even if it costs our lives! It’s our JOB!”

Sam took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Ok. It’s our job. Fine.” He collected his duffle, headed to the door. “I’ll be the next town over, in a motel there. I’ll be back this evening on the bus, you can pick me up. By then I’ll know where the rougarou lairs, and we can gank the bastard tonight.” He hefted his bags. “But I’m not staying here to play target for a bunch of redneck hunters who can’t get the idea that I ALREADY PAID for that mistake.”

“Sammy—“

“No, Dean! I mean it!”

Dean scowled as he relented. “Fine, we’ll go. Just give me a few minutes to collect my stuff.”

As Dean gathered his gear Sam leaned against the outside door. 'When did it go so wrong? No--don't lie, don't play ignorant. I didn't even try to find Dean when he went to Purgatory. I didn't even look. And Dean isn't going to forgive this time, not the way he holds grudges. It doesn't matter what I do, what miracle I pull out of the air, he's never going to forgive me.'

'The worst part is that I don't deserve forgiveness. Not for abandoning him.'


End file.
